Injured
by Beregond5
Summary: He always checked on them whenever they set camp. It's time for his companions to return the favour. Companions Ensemble, Male Dalish Elf/Zevran pairing.


"Leliana, I will need your kerchief again," Zevran said as the party walked, sighing as he spotted yet another darkspawn stain on his armour. Just when he had thought he had cleaned it properly this time, too!

"After what you did with it last time? I'd rather not," the bard replied.

"You seriously want the darkspawn stench to accompany us all the way to Orzammar?" the assassin asked, acting shocked.

"I'm sure we'll survive it," Morrigan said dryly, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. "Unlike the incessant complaining of a certain party member to my left."

"That was another jab at me, I take it?" Alistair asked with a weary sigh. "I would have gladly retorted, but I'm too busy being in pain."

"You still walk. You'll be able to fight again by the time we have other encounters," Sten said, his tone cool and professional as always.

"Can't wait," Alistair said with a wry sigh.

"If it will make you feel better, Alistair, I can have a look at your wound once we set camp," Wynne said with a reassuring smile.

"Thanks, Wynne, I knew you loved me. Unlike those meanies," Alistair said, sticking his tongue out at them. "Oh, fellow Grey Wardens excluded, of course."

Theron, however, didn't answer; the Dalish was walking further ahead from the rest of the group, giving the impression that he wasn't paying attention to the conversation banter. He didn't even seem to pay attention to Beorn, who was walking next to him; the hound was whining softly at him, trying to curl his paw around his master's leg as if wishing to get his attention. It seemed like he was attempting to charm his way in earning more crunchies. Even so, the company felt uneasy, for it was then that they noticed Theron's motions were a far cry from the graceful and smooth pace he always had. In fact, he looked as if ready to…

In the next moment, Theron fell on the ground, face down, his armour making a deafening sound at the impact. Alistair and Zevran were the first to reach their fallen companion, turning him over, and they winced at the sight. Theron's eyes were closed, his face all white and his lips bloodless and trembling.

"Theron? Come on, talk to me!" Alistair said, gently shaking the elf.

It was of no use; Theron didn't respond. Zevran pushed a couple of sweat-drenched strands off his fellow elf's face and then, frowning, removed one of his gloves to feel Theron's forehead.

"_Brashka_," he muttered under his breath, and he looked up at Wynne and Morrigan. "He's burning!"

The two women nodded and they set to work. Morrigan opened her bag to see what herbs she had, while Wynne placed a hand over Theron, murmuring gently.

"I don't understand. What might have caused this weakness? Darkspawn magic?" Sten asked, frowning.

"Lack of attendance, more like," Morrigan said, peeling open the unconscious elf's armour. A single ribbon of bandage was wrapped around Theron's waist, drenched in a mix of dried and fresh blood. And when the witch dared a peek underneath the soaking bandages, everyone saw the gaping and angry wound marring the elf's skin.

"Maker's breath!" Leliana exclaimed. She had placed Theron's head on her lap, hoping to make him more comfortable. "When did that happen?"

Zevran bit his lip, for he recalled _exactly_ when it happened. He, Alistair, Theron and Beorn had scouted ahead since they had spotted darkspawn tracks on the highway. Needless to say they had spotted them and fought them, but the fight had turned out to be a lot more challenging than they had originally thought. Alistair had gotten knocked out, and if Theron hadn't weakened a couple of hurlocks before falling as well, then Zevran and Beorn wouldn't have stood a chance. When Theron came to, the first thing he did was to see to their injuries. He gave Zevran a couple of poultices for him and Beorn and, while the two of them regained some of their strength, he knelt down next to Alistair, taking out his injury kit. Under the circumstances, Zevran had just assumed that his lover had simply gotten the wind knocked out of him. He had been wrong.

Alistair lowered his gaze, saddened; it was obvious he was remembering the same thing.

"You idiot," he said quietly, though everyone was sure that he was addressing Theron. "Why did you do that?"

"You needed it more," came the weak answer. Sure enough, green eyes opened slowly and Theron looked up at Alistair, his gaze slightly unfocused.

"Don't talk as if you couldn't take care of your own injuries afterwards!" the young man exclaimed.

"There are no more kits," Theron replied softly.

Alistair blinked. "And when you say no more, you mean…?"

"I think he means he used the last one to fix you," Morrigan said. "Although I don't understand why he should have bothered, you've already fallen too many times on your head in childhood."

"Shut up!"

"That's quite enough out of both of you," Wynne declared. "If you want to fight, don't do it over his head."

"Or better yet, let's all take a break and decide what to do next," Zevran said. "He can't continue on like this."

"I agree," Leliana said with a nod. "This is as good a place to rest as any nearby."

"Then it's decided," Wynne said. "Morrigan, do whatever you can to help his condition. Sten, you will stand guard once the night falls. The rest of us should start setting camp."

Everyone nodded their understanding – that is, except for Beorn. The hound lay down next to his master, placing his head on the broad chest.

"No," Morrigan said immediately in a firm tone. "You're not sleeping _here_ of all places!"

Beorn looked up at her and whined.

"Let me make it simple for you," the witch said with a huff. "You're as tall as our elven friend here, and you weigh twice as much as he does. The last thing he needs next to his wound is several broken bones because of a stubborn, thick-boned flea-carrier!"

Beorn whined again and licked his master's face.

"I know you won't hurt me, boy," Theron said, smiling weakly as fingers ran through the short, brown fur.

"Don't mind me then. I'll just tend to your wound and then point at you and laugh when your mutt crushes you lovingly under his weight," Morrigan said, rolling her eyes. "Or should I _really _point out that his stomach has been touching the ground too much lately and he barely manages to run a few feet before his tongue rolls out and…"

Beorn interrupted her, barking indignantly.

"Always in denial," the witch said with a long suffering sigh, and she continued working.

* * *

Alistair stood by the fire, as he always did, yet he was hardly concerned about getting warm. He simply kept an eye on Theron's tent, waiting for the moment that Morrigan would finally step out and take up her own comfortable place as far away from the others as possible. The royal-blooded man was in no mood to deal with her, aware that they would only just end up fighting again. He had enough of her bitchiness for today, thank you very much.

So, as soon as he saw her leave, he moved in tip-toe and pushed one of the flaps aside to step in. Theron was there, of course (where else would he be in his condition?), and Beorn was next to him, offering his master some extra warmth. The hound pricked up his ears and turned his gaze to Alistair, a questioning look in his intelligent eyes.

"Easy, puppy," Alistair said, raising his hand in an appeasing manner. "I just want to check on him."

"And probably ask me what I was thinking," Theron said with a small smile, opening his eyes.

"That would be an extra bonus, yes," Alistair admitted, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "So… is getting ourselves killed before the darkspawn or Loghain do away with us our new strategy?"

"You have to admit that would certainly foil their plans about us."

"The archdemon, especially. You know how eager he is about his one-on-one battle," Alistair said. In the next moment, however, he sobered and he looked at his fellow Grey Warden, his _friend_, feeling more than just a little hurt. "You realize that, from the two of us, I'm the most expendable, right?"

"You're the king's son and a candidate to the throne."

"I'm the king's_ bastard _son, who just happened not to die along with his half-brother," Alistair pointed out. "And it's not me uniting us against the Blight."

"You can be the one who will keep them united."

"I don't know if you've missed the memo, but I'm not exactly leader material. You're the one who brought us together, and you're the one guiding us onwards, preparing us for the final onslaught and even helping those in need along the way."

"Are you saying you wouldn't have done the same thing?"

"Yes! I mean, no, of course I would, but…!" Alistair sighed, realizing that he was probably not making much sense. "I would try. But you're much better at it, reaching to every decision easily, without so much as a second thought. First the Circle, then Redcliffe, then the Forest… I would probably hide in a corner and cry in frustration every time I'd have to make a choice."

"Then why don't you agree with my choice to use my last injury kit on you?"

"What do you mean why?" Alistair exclaimed. "Because we're friends, because you helped me out, because we're in this together and I'm supposed to watch your back!"

"I consider you a friend too, Alistair."

"Glad we agree on that part. So why did you do it?"

"Any _shem_ who has made me consider them a friend is worth saving."

It was then that the thought occurred to Alistair. Humans, or _shems_, as the Dalish elves called them, had been responsible for the deaths of Theron's parents. Humans kept driving Theron's people away, treating them either with mistrust or pure hatred, forcing them to be constantly on the move. And there were those who regarded the elf as inferior even now that Theron had earned his place as a Grey Warden. In spite of it all, however, Theron kept silent, helping out even when his help wasn't welcome, dutiful to his task as a Grey Warden. He had every reason to hate humans back and thus abandon them to their fate, yet he chose to fight for them instead.

"You realize you're making me blush now, right?" Alistair said, tugging his lips into his trademarked grin. Deep inside, though, he felt more than just a little touched.

"Oh, I apologise, my prince," Theron replied, smiling fondly.

"Don't. Just don't. The attack of the blush is only getting worse," Alistair said nervously. "I should just go and come back when you're screaming bloody murder and going, 'This is all Alistair's fault! Next time I see him, I'll kill him and keep all the poultices for myself!'"

"Or I could just sleep it off," Theron pointed out, grinning.

"Or that. Yes, you do that," Alistair said, getting back on his feet. "Well, sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite."

"I'm not sleeping on a bed."

"Oh, right. You're safe then. Good." With that, the royal-blooded man walked out, deciding to have some rest as well. Tomorrow it was a new day and by then, hopefully, Theron would be strong enough to continue the journey.

* * *

Leliana was the next one to walk inside, smiling as she held a bowl of hot stew in her hands. The smell was enough to make Beorn shift and whine softly, dragging Theron out of his light slumber.

"You looked so peaceful the way you slept," she said, kneeling next to the elf. "I was almost tempted not to wake you up. You need your rest."

"I've been through worse," Theron said reassuringly.

"I suppose you have. Let's not make a habit out of it yet, though, shall we?" the bard said kindly. "I brought you some stew. It's not much, but at least it's hot."

"All right. Thanks, Leliana." Theron winced when he tried to sit up, however; his body obviously didn't appreciate the strain.

"Let me help you with that," she said tenderly, letting Theron lean on her for support. "Shall I tell you one of the stories I've heard while we were at Lake Calenhad?"

"Go on," Theron said, taking the bowl in his hand.

"Well, legend has it that the lake is the nest of mythical creatures, hiding at the bottom, away from prying eyes…"

* * *

"How long did you intend to keep the wound unattended?"

Theron turned around, surprised to see that Sten was standing at the entrance. The giant qunari didn't make a motion to step further inside, though. He simply fixed his piercing gaze on the elf and waited for his answer.

"Till we reached our next stop."

"Which would be?"

"Orzammar."

Sten pursed his lips, contemplating on the answer and then looked at Theron again.

"It was foolish of you to attempt such a thing."

"I had to try, at least," Theron replied honestly.

"It was still foolish. The archdemon will not wait for you to recover before challenging you."

"I won't give him that kind of chance."

"We'll see if you'll be good to your word, then." With that, Sten exited quietly, leaving Theron to his thoughts once more. If the elf didn't know better, though, he'd say that he had detected a slight smile on the qunari's lips.

Gods, it really was impossible to tell what was on Sten's mind. Theron just _hoped_ that that was the qunari's way of saying, 'Get well soon.'

* * *

When Wynne pushed the flaps aside, she saw that Theron was wide awake, petting a sleeping Beorn on the head in a thoughtful manner. She smiled knowingly and she walked inside.

"You have trouble sleeping?"

Theron looked at her, snapping out of his musings, and nodded with a slight sigh.

"Perhaps I can do something about it," she said, kneeling at his side. "Close your eyes and forget everything."

Theron nodded his understanding and closed his eyes, complying. Still smiling, Wynne placed a hand over the closed eyelids and then whispered softly, casting her spell. In a matter of moments, the elf was relaxed, his lips slightly parted as he snored lightly.

"Consider it a thank you for all those times you came to check on this old woman," she said affectionately and, after ruffling his hair gently in a mother fashion, she exited as quietly as she had entered.

* * *

Zevran always prided himself as an elf who knew what he wanted in his life, and this time it wasn't going to be an exception. After several failed attempts to sleep in his own tent, he realized that the best remedy to cure his restlessness was a particular Grey Warden who was resting not too far away. It was true that his Grey Warden always invited him first – a kind of tradition that they kept since their first night together – but Zevran knew that Theron was in no condition to invite him over. And, truth be told… he did miss his handsome warrior.

With that thought, Zevran pushed the blanket off himself and headed out. Nobody was around at this time of night. Apparently, they had fallen asleep, giving the assassin the chance to slip by them unnoticed. A few moments later, he was inside his Grey Warden's tent and then settled next to him with a small sigh of content. Propping himself on his elbow, he watched the beautiful face lax in sleep, the strong chest rising up and down in a peaceful rhythm. But for the bloodless lips and face, Zevran would have completely forgotten that his lover was wounded.

"My wonderful, foolish Warden," Zevran murmured gently, caressing Theron's face with the back of his fingers. "If you die, then where am I to go, hm?"

Theron leant to the touch in his sleep, something that made the assassin smile fondly.

"Apology accepted," he said, nuzzling him in a tender manner. "Just don't do it again; I have an oath to keep and this will only make me look bad."

With that, Zevran closed his eyes, happy to be warm once more. It didn't take him long to fall asleep after that, so he never felt the light fingers caressing his hair or the soft breath that carried four simple words out of Theron's lips.

"I love you, too."

**The End.**

**_A/n: I know there's no Shale here, but I don't have her in my game. _  
**


End file.
